


Magic from UNCLE

by Moriartehhh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Beauxbatons, Dark lord Victoria, F/M, Hogwarts AU, M/M, Magic, tiny baby angst, veela Napoleon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-28 15:14:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5095385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moriartehhh/pseuds/Moriartehhh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are the stories of our favorite three young students as they try to survive their hogwarts years, and the rise of the dark lord herself. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>(mandatory Hogwarts AU for man from Uncle)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day one: just try to breathe

**Author's Note:**

> Hope this is enjoyable! It will be multiple chapters long! I will try to update as often as I can!

September first should be one of the most memorable, cherished days in a young wizards life. Its the day that a child first leaves home, to begin their education at Hogwarts. Parents are teary eyed and resigned to communication through letters until the holidays, their children trying to hide their unease at leaving home. The last breakfast at home before the family parts at the train station.  
It’s supposed to be memorable. 

 

Illya Kuryakin stuffed his last sweater neatly into his suitcase. All of the articles of clothing were perfectly arranged to optimize organization. It was a clean cut replica of how he had seen his father pack his things for all of his trips, when he was younger. The older Russian man would fold every shirt, pant, sweater, neatly and slide them in to their proper place, a system which he remarked his grandmother had enforced on the family before they had boarded to come to England. His military cut would sheen against the pale kitchen light. Illya would always be sat atop one of the stiff kitchen chairs, arranged about the small dining table. The young boys gaze would never waver from his fathers tall form. It was like watching a ballet, watching his father move. Each breath and grasp and look was calculated to the point of perfection.  
“Your work is done?” His fathers voice was gruff and brisk. He never directly addressed his son, but his stature insisted that his full attention was on the boys every response.  
“Da, отец.” Illya would straighten, raising his chin in slight pride as his father hummed in acceptance.  
No other words would be shared. It was a comfortable arrangement, none the less. The father and son enjoyed each others company without the presence of fickle communication. Occasionally, the mother would join them, placing a light kiss against her sons forehead—a light, loving pressure—and a gentle hand against her husbands back as she moved around him in the small kitchen.  
It was as close to domestic bliss as the small family ever came.  
Uncle Oleg was unlike the couple, he was much louder. The man was boisterous, never wavering in the discipline of his nephew, nor the long rants he would enforce upon the boy. Illya had been in residence with the stocky politician since his fathers arrest, and relocation to Azkaban. His parents had been followers of the dark lord—death eaters—but his father had betrayed the cause, and by the time he had been arrested, Illya’s mother was already in hiding.  
Oleg had stepped forward to become the young, now orphan, boys guardian; mostly for the benefits it would reek on his campaign. The positive propaganda had been good for the older Russian, but hadn’t been enough of a push for him to beat Sander Solo for the Minister position. It had secured a high up enough position to warrant keeping the boy around, however.  
Illya scoffed to himself, zipping up his suitcase and pulling it off of the small twin bed. He spared a fleeting, last glance at the small cubby that had served as his bedroom for so long—six years. All proof that it had housed a child had been erased as he had packed his few personal belongings. The eleven year old nodded to himself, content with the knowledge that his packing had been sufficient, before turning and making his way downstairs. He didn’t bother closing the door behind him, not minding if someone were to re-inhabit it while he was away.  
Oleg was waiting at the bottom of the stairs by the door, a thick cigar hanging from his thin lips. He regarded his gangly nephew as he came down the steps, suitcase clutched at his side. Fat fingers reached up to pull the cigar away, smoke curling out after it.  
“Ready?” Illya only offered a stiff nod, encouraging a grumble from his uncle, who turned out the front door and hobbled his way towards the sleek black, ministry ordered car. The eleven year old paused in the entry way, taking a deep breath before following after his guardian.  
The ride to the train station was spent in terse silence. Illya watched the drab buildings whiz by, cataloging the empty feeling in his chest as they grew nearer to the station. This was his next chance at a blank slate.  
They arrived and got out solemnly. Oleg blew another puff of smoke, rubbing the end against the upholstery of the ministry vehicle and placing the cigar back into his suit pocket. It would be the sort of display that would make Illya question how his uncle still retained his job, but the boy was busy already walking off to find the right gate. The older man put no effort into catching up, trailing behind the boy at a leisurely pace. He ducked his head, readjusting his hat as he passed through the platform, the sounds of families filling his world.  
Illya stood, eyes transfixed upon the giant red train. His hands clenched around the strap of his case as he swallowed nervously. He could feel his uncles cold presence as the man came to stand behind him.  
“Well,” Oleg grunted, studying the crowd for any familiar faces from his school days, “don’t get in any trouble. The last thing I need is more bad press from your side of the family.”  
It’s as close to a heartfelt goodbye as the man will ever give him.  
Illya nods to his guardian before taking another breath and stalking forward to find a place inside the train before all the cars fill up. There was never a spare glance back at what he was leaving behind.  
Children bustled through the train cars, shaking hands and searching for approachable looking others to sit with. The richer kids all flocked to each other, having already met through going with their families to formal gatherings. It wasn’t ineptly hard to point out which boys and girls would be dawning the emerald and silver come sorting time.  
Illya clutched his suitcase to his chest, trying to slink through the crowds of shorter students. His height had always been a source of inconvenience in crowded settings, only counteracted by his thin frame. A few of Uncle Oleg’s female coworkers had taken to calling him ‘the Russian been pole’, the few times they saw him with his guardian.  
He caught sight of an empty train car, instantly snaking to the left and into the unoccupied space. The door closed behind him and he felt as though he was able to breathe again, taking in small gulps of stale air. The seats were soft and accommodating as he fell back into them, setting his case at his feet. He sighed, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the cushion.  
His eyes remained closed, no other students trying to enter the car before the train jerked to life, the whistle letting out a shrill screech. Illya’s eyes eased open, crystal blue orbs looking over and out the small window. Parents stood among the platform, tears in their eyes, waving goodbye to their children as the train roared to life. His attention was caught on the figure of a woman much like his own mother had once looked, her dirty blonde hair swept up into a messy bun atop her head. She had a light handkerchief grasped in her fist, raising it to her eye as a few tears slipped out. He couldn’t see for certain, but he could almost see the matching blue of her eyes—his eyes.  
The car door behind him opened with a hiss, causing the boy to break from his daydream and look back over his shoulder. A short, weaselly boy had peaked his head through the opening, a look of disdain marring his features.  
“This full?” He asked, with his whiney voice. Illya decided then that he didn’t like this boy much. He squinted back, studying him.  
“Why?”  
“Well, I was gon’ ask if I could set my stuff in here. My car is full, you see—to the brim. My father is a friend of the Minister. I’m practically a Count.” The boy preened, puffing out his chest in a display of superiority. Illya wondered how easily it would be to break his bones.  
“Good for you.” He responded curtly.  
“It’s Lippi, in case you were wondering. I’m sure you’ll be hearing more of my name this year. I’ll be in Slytherin.”  
“Oh, I’m sure.” Illya gave the other boy his best fake smile, clenching his fists against his sides. Lippi, the little asshole, mistook Illya’s displeasure with sincerity, and smiled widely. He tossed his suitcase into the car and closed the door without another word. Illya eyed the suitcase with disdain, momentarily weighing the outcomes of throwing it out the small window.  
Illya silently hoped that not all of the students would resemble the so called, ‘Count Lippi’. He wasn’t sure that his patience could withstand it for an entire year, let alone seven. Even if they were all carbon copies of the other boy, he could manage survival as long as they didn’t all try to talk to him. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Illya shuffled his feet nervously amongst the crowd of fellow first years. He felt much too tall in the canvas of smaller boys and girls. The older students eyes all caught on him as they scanned the new meat. It was nothing he had not experienced before, but now it filled him with a sense of oncoming dread.  
The Headmaster, Waverly, sat overlooking the dining hall from the middle chair at the staff table. His hair dark gray was cut short, glasses perched on his nose. His gaze felt piercing, as if his eyes alone could strip you raw.  
Illya swallowed and ducked his head as the mans gaze landed on him.  
The sorting hat was slowly making its way through the list of first years, putting each of them into their new respective houses. It felt like a hoard of soldiers retrieving their bunking. The wait for his name to appear in the roster was suffocating to Illya, who felt his hands trembling against the sides of his legs. Then, finally,  
“Illya Kuryakin!” He forced his legs to respond to the call, struggling forwards and refusing to meet the eyes of anyone else around him. The dining hall was silent as he approached the chair at the front. Everyone seemed to be eyeing the young giant and trying to gauge what house he would be placed in.  
The hat was placed cautiously atop his head when he sat down, the brim falling down to cover his eyes. Illya fought the response of blushing.  
“Ah, another Kuryakin. A bit surprising, actually. I would have surmised your father would send his only son to Durmstrang.” Illya bit his tongue to withhold any remark.  
“Not much of a wanton speaker, I see. A very respectable treat, my boy.” There was a pause, Illya gripping the sides of the chair to keep himself from shuffling in the seat. “Now, let’s see, let’s see. Brave, but not rash. No cowardice in you, well done. Ambitious, yes. Yes. I don’t suppose you put yourself first, however. Hmm. Only one place I can imagine you being, Mr. Kuryakin. Best of luck to you in HUFFLEPUFF!”  
The hat was pulled from his head, Illya blinking weakly at the now cheering yellow house table. He pushed himself up, looking down to see his robes change colors as he ambled his way over to sit next to the other new hufflepuff students. Students smiled at him as he went.  
Looking around at the other students at his table, he made a sudden decision.  
Perhaps this would not be so bad.


	2. Transfer student

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some backstory on how Gaby and Illya came to become best friends, and the introduction of a certain blue eyed veela

Illya rolled his eyes as Gaby elbowed him in the side, pointing out two Gryffindor students across the hall who were seemingly caught up in a heated breakup. The second year Ravenclaw had her brown hair pulled up into a messy ponytail, her brown eyes twinkling. She was minuscule next to the older boy, nearly an entire foot shorter in height. It had been daunting at first for the Russian, constantly worried about breaking his small new friend. 

Illya had met Gaby half way through his first year. She had been lurking about the lower levels of the castle, near the potions room. They had colliding into each other as he had rounded a corner. It was a short lived encounter, however, as Gaby had retreated from the way she came before Illya even had a chance to ask if she was alright. 

The two did not meet again until christmas break. The vast majority of the residences of the castle were already departed for their own homes, leaving the sparse remaining few to mill about the grounds. There wasn’t much conversation between them, just nods and smiles. The majority of the remaining students were staying due to a lack of family available to return to for the holidays, or in Illya’s case, a ‘family’ that he had no desire to return to. 

There would be no trees under a tree for him, nor a warm christmas morning breakfast. It had been a very long time since the boy had properly celebrated a holiday. His last birthday cake had been on his seventh birthday. To have an excuse not to be in the draft building he called home, was the greatest christmas gift he had ever been given. Oleg had put up no fight at the notion, which came as no surprise. 

The last thing Illya had been expecting over the holiday break was to develop a friendship. Many of his housemates were friendly to him, but he had yet to make a personal bond with any of them. It wasn’t of any surprise to him, he wasn’t a very ‘warm’ personality, but it was rather lonely. 

Gaby had apparently been intrigued by the tall boy she had bumped into in the halls, sitting next to him at dinner one night. It had been tense for a few minutes before she had decided to break the silence. 

“Sorry about bumping into you the other day.” Her voice was not as squeaky and obnoxious as Illya would have imagined. 

“Is fine.” He mumbled, keeping his gaze away from the girl next to him. 

“My name’s Gaby. My father is the Headmaster here.” That instantly peaked his curiosity.

“You are Headmaster Waverly’s daughter?” He looked over then, taking in her appearance. She didn’t look familiar. She had shoulder length, dark brown hair, and deep chestnut colored eyes. Her lips were pulled into a loose smile, complimenting her round face and rosy cheeks. 

“Yep!” She chirped, nodding pleasantly. 

“What house are you in?” 

“Oh,” She blushed, reaching up to rub the back of her neck. “I’m not. Not yet, anyways! I’ll be a first year next year.” 

“You are allowed here when not a student?” Illya cocked his head, giving the girl his full attention. 

“My school is off on break, and so I get to come and spend the holidays here with Dad.” 

“You do not spend it with your mother?” Illya scoffed, instantly regretting his inquiry as the girls expression soured. 

“She’s not around anymore.”

“I am sorry.” Silence followed for a few minutes, engulfing them both in the familiarity of solitude. Illya could see the way the girls shoulders were slumped in out of the corner of his eye, making his stomach churn with something akin to guilt. 

“Why are you here then?” She suddenly questioned, startling the older boy.

“Hmm?”

“Why are you here and not spending the holidays with your mother?” There was an edge of malice to her tone. Illya found himself respecting this girl.

“I live with my uncle.” He answered simply. “He is not…company that I wished to keep during the holidays.” 

“Why not?” Illya just shrugged in response. She dropped the topic.

The two of them made small talk for the remainder of the meal, parting for their respective rooms with smiles on their faces. It had been comfortable, their companionship. 

They ate together for the next few days, before they began to associate outside of the dining hall. By the time christmas eve rolled around, Gaby had invited Illya to come spend the holiday in the headmasters private quarters with her and her father. 

“No one should spend Christmas alone, Illya.” She had admonished when he tried to refuse her offer. 

It was nice. The headmaster was more than generous and accommodating, treating Illya as more than just another random student. It almost felt resemblant of a familial setting, which set the boys nerves on end. He was unfamiliar with being treated as if he belonged. 

This involvement continued over the course of the second semester, Illya feeling as though he was certainly getting more individual attention from the Headmaster. Gaby had returned to her primary school, but they wrote letters to each other daily. He suspected that she had requested her father keep an eye on him while she was gone. Yet, he couldn’t find it in himself to mind much. 

Illya found himself spending the spring vacation time at the Waverly manor in Scotland, with Gaby and her father. It was a home large enough to compete with the Hogwarts castle itself. There were enough rooms to house his uncles entire department in the ministry, left furnished and uninhabited. Illya had gawked upon setting foot in the home, his case falling to the floor beside him. Gaby had had to put her hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter at her friends response. Even Waverly had smirked. 

It had been, perhaps, the most fun Illya had ever had—spending the break with the two of them. His favorite part of the stay, however, was the full sized Quidditch pitch behind the manor. Gaby had taken him out to see it on their second day, sweeping her arm wide in a grand gesture towards the sight. It was enough to steal ones breath away. They had regularly made use of the pitch over the next week. By the end of the break, Waverly was declaring how he was convinced that Illya would make the Hufflepuff team next year. 

It brought a shy smile to the boys face. 

The more he associated with the girl and her father, the more he opened up to them, and the more they seemed to pull him into their daily routines. Illya quickly found himself dreading the idea of returning to his Uncles home for summer. He didn’t know that he could stomach the man, and his pureblood attitude, after spending time with a real family. 

Said family had not reacted well to the discovery of Illya’s ‘family life’. It was shortly after his confession of the condition of his home life that the Russian boy had found himself being invited to spend the summer back at the Waverly Manor. He had been flabbergasted, but had solemnly stated that his Uncle would surely be against the idea. 

Oleg—whether by the goodness of his own heart, or a work of God himself—had agreed to let his nephew spend the summer away. 

It is unclear who thought of the idea first, but it became abundantly clear, that this might not be a temporary arrangement. By the end of his second year, and Gaby’s first, Illya had become a permanent fixture in the Waverly family. 

Illya had never been happier—or more loved. 

 

“Told you they wouldn’t last.” Gaby whispered under her breath, loud enough for only him to hear. Illya had to stifle a chuckle. She had called it. 

“I do not remember disagreeing with you.” He mumbled in response. 

“You did so! You told me that they would make it to christmas!” Gaby crowed silently, giving him a challenging look. 

“Exactly, never said they would never break up.” He smirked, earning a punch to the ribcage. For such a small girl, Gaby had always been able to pack a punch. Illya had to bite back a yelp at the hit. 

“So, how many new students do you think will be in your house this year?” 

“Enough.” He concluded, eyeing the crowd of first years filing into the dining hall to be sorted. His only true concern for the bunch was if there were any prospective new quidditch players amongst the lot. To his chagrin, however, none of the students really stood out from the others. 

The hall was suddenly filled with whispers and pointing as a taller, older boy followed in after the eleven year olds. Illya recognized him immediately from all the media attention he had been given over the past three months. He was the thirteen year old son of the Minister of Magic himself. Rumors spelled that he had grown up with his mother, attending the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic from the time he turned ten to the time his mother passed away—the previous year. His father, after hearing of the passing of his son’s mother, insisted that his son come to live with him, and attend Hogwarts. The wizarding world had quickly leached onto the juicy gossip of the boy’s relocation, and had been infatuated with any aspect of his person that they could uncover. The biggest topic so far had been that his mother, Madame Solo, had been a Veela, which made her son half veela. There had been much more, but Illya preferred to learn about people through meeting, and getting to know them, not reading tabloids. 

Never the less, he found his eyes tracking the boys figure along with the rest of the hall. He was well built, his robes fitting his figure well, and his dark hair complimenting his fair skin. He seemed to preen under the attention the Hogwarts students were giving him, straightening his posture under their gazes and flashing a few small smiles at girls near him. 

“Well, for your teams sake, I hope he gets placed in Hufflepuff.” Gaby spoke under her breath.

“Why is that?” Illya scoffed, not taking his eyes off of the other boy. There was just something—almost magnetic—about him that it made it hard to look away. 

“You didn’t hear?” He shook his head in confusion. “It was featured in the paper last week. He was the star seeker at his old school, apparently. ‘None like him’, they say.” Illya quirked a brow, eyes scanning his figure. 

“Looks more like a beater.” He whispered. The younger girls response was cut short as Headmaster Waverly approached the front of the hall and cleared his throat. The next few minutes were filled with a, ‘Welcome all, back from your joyous summer vacation!’ speech, and the horrid song that they all suffered in unison at the beginning of a new year. 

Then, following another speech, the sorting began. They all watched respectably, cheering when a student joined their houses, and stifling laughter when a first year tripped on their way to their new house table. 

The enthusiasm of the crowd this year, however, was lesser than in previous years. It was obvious that the student body was eagerly awaiting the sorting of their new transferring third year, rather than the arrival of the new first years. The sorting took its usual amount of time, leaving only one figure waiting for their relocation. 

Students were practically perched on the edge of their seats. 

“Napoleon Solo!” The boy seemed to suck in a deep breath before swiftly ambling his way forward to sit on the stool. The hat was lowered onto his head, covering the styled dark locks that Illya had been so kept with moments prior. They all sat in terse silence as the hat made its decision. Illya let his eyes scan the hall then, surprised by the amount of boys that were just as invested in the new third year as the girls. 

‘Perhaps to be half veela is still potent enough for this level of attraction.’ Illya thought to himself, looking back and feeling a tug in his chest seeing that Gaby wasn’t nearly as affected as the rest of the girls at his table. A smile tugged at his lips. 

“SLYTHERIN!” The sorting hat suddenly boomed, the green and silver table leaping to their feet and erupting in cheers. The disappointment radiated from the other three houses, all having to watch as the famous newcomers robes changed colors as he went to sit with his new house. 

Illya cocked his head, watching as a few older slytherins clapped the new boy on the back, no doubt commenting on how excited they were for him to win the Quidditch cup for them. He felt his breath hitch in his throat, suddenly, as the boy twisted his head towards the Hufflepuff table and their eyes met. 

Illya found himself reveling in the stark, vibrant blue of the other boys eyes. He had never seen a color so indescribably blue. It made his stomach twist in knots that he wasn’t entirely comfortable with, yet he found himself welcoming. It was short lived, as the boy looked away again to talk with an excited blonde girl next to him. 

The hall broke out into its usual volume, students all moving back to converse and eat amongst themselves. Yet, Illya still found himself frequently eyeing his way across the tables to the face of the new slytherin, curiosity weighed heavily in his gut. He wanted to see those eyes again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope it's still enjoyable! Will try to update as regularly as possible!


End file.
